


A Nice And Accurate Encounter

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter Gives Zero Fucks, Agnes Nutter Ships It, Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Prophecy, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Witch Hunts, Witchcraft, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: In the mid-1600's, Crowley has a run-in with rural English villagers and a narrow escape aided by the local witch. The middle initial may be finally explained.
Comments: 72
Kudos: 230
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	A Nice And Accurate Encounter

The last thing he remembered clearly was getting out of the ropes, only to find that they’d been tied so tight he could barely stumble, and had cut into the flesh above one ankle. He was pretty sure he’d covered some ground after that, because there was a less distinct recollection of rhythmic pulses of pain as the damned gimcrack corporation pulled itself back online. He’d been prayed over and harangued from the pages of too-close-for-comfort Bibles just long enough to leave him feeling like he’d been smacked on the head, and that was a possibility in itself. It was hard to sort out quite what had happened after the thieving little bastard had snatched his glasses. Some of these urchins would steal anything they thought they could sell on market day.

“Thou’r’t awake,” said a no-nonsense, gravelly voice just above him. “Need’s’t a chamberpot? Or a swallow of water? This is catmint tea.”

“Uh… no, yes, and maybe.”

“‘Tis a boon for my rheumatism. I hazard ye’ll find an ache or two.”

“How’d I get here?” _Here_ was the inside of a dim, cosy, warm cottage, crammed in all directions with books, dried herbs, cookware, papers (loose and tied in rolls), and the kind of astronomical instruments he remembered from Leonardo’s studio. A kettle hung over an open stone hearth in the middle of the floor; he was looking up at it, from inside a haphazard roll of woollens.

“I loosed the magistrate’s prize sheepdog. There’s no better sport than pricking a witch, but for hallooing after Grip when he gives chase to a rabbit.” Long dark skirts came into focus, then knotted hands turning back the coverings. “Master Quinceneadle would hardly surrender his yearly victory at the sheepdog trials. Ah, this is ready.” A vaguely swampy smell came from a pottery crock as she set it down on the slates; gripped his jaw gently in a dry, rough hand, turning his face this way and that to daub something that stung on scrapes and nicks. “It doesn’t do to let folk see eyes like that.”

“Ah… runs in the family.”

A single snort conveyed a whole vocabulary of skepticism. “Thou’r’t a demon, or I am no witch. Let me see to that poultice. They bound thee cruelly.” The ankle wound was tender and angry, and whatever was in the crock burned there like honest Hellfire. “I had a job to catch up to thee, mind. Thou’r’t made of stern stuff.”

“Why… ‘d you help me?”

“Did's't not hear me, wittol? I am a witch, as they took thee for. Till now the villagers bear it, for the healings and predictions, but the reckoning will come.” Her frizzy hair was loose as you rarely saw this century, her features sharp. “Demon or no, thou wert minding thine own affairs when that greasy-faced Johnson lad snatched thy spectacles.” She produced Crowley’s smoked glasses from a pocket of her voluminous skirt. “I mended them best I might, but I suspect thou canst do better.”

One arm was bent, and a coarse scratch crossed the left lens. A minor miracle smoothed the damage. She didn’t seem to mind his eyes though, and the cottage was comfortably dim; he put them away in his own clothing, which had the untucked feel of having been shifted and set back to rights without his assistance.

“Thou took’s’t blows, but no bones broken. Thy next lover can admire a sunset.”

“Ah – nothing going on there, ‘fraid.”

“For a demon thou lack’st ambition.” And for a stern, middle-aged woman, her smile was remarkably roguish. “I could offer thee some of what I brewed for Master Wallstop when his wife turned cold to him – ah, leave it, thou’l’t find thine own trouble soon enough. How’s thy head?”

“Better.”

“Thy belly? Blows like that can make ye vomity.”

“Feels fine.”

“Porridge then? Or elderberry wine? I laid it up last year.”

“Hell yes,” he said. It was only when she stepped away to fetch it that he saw, surveying the cluttered room, a large grass snake coiled motionless in a shallow pottery dish near the hob. It regarded him sidelong with a beady black eye.

“Ah, that’s Winthrop. I found him down by the millstream. Just like ye, with a bit of damage. He’ll be ready to go soon.”

The elderberry brew had a kick. He noticed she poured herself a hefty tot.

“So what errand had ye so far up into Lancashire? If I know anything of Heaven or Hell, they’d far rather deal with King and Parliament.”

“You – ah – “

“Close thy mouth, Master – ?”

“Crowley.”

“Something might fly in. Hast a temptation to commit? Mischief to perform? Life here is dull enough. I might move to my daughter’s at the county seat, but I would not bring trouble upon them.”

“How d’you _know_ these things?”

“Need I tell ye one more time? Thou’r’t thicker-headed than I took thee for, else that blow _did_ addle thee. The Craft knows all it needs to know of Hell and Heaven, and cares a fig for neither. Found I an angel in the same straits, I’d minister to ’em. Though I daresay they’d have the wits to keep out of trouble.”

“You don’t know ’em like I do, then.”

“Have another. ‘T’won’t keep with the wax seal breached. So y’know angels? Aye. Y’do – one in particular.”

“Cross paths a lot – “

“Aye, like Hob the blacksmith’s boy meets the magistrate’s kitchen maid whenever she’s sent to the market. Ye’ll be the ones.”

“Ones what?”

“‘Tis late. I’ll bank the fire, Master Demon, and leave ye to your sleep. Ye’ll be fit to travel by tomorrow nightfall. After dark is best.”

* * *

The loud pounding at the cottage door – not the light, which was unexpectedly high – brought him to full consciousness. The second round of hammering finished with a loud shout: “Open, mistress! We seek a fugitive.”

She’d seated herself at the crammed desk, and the skirts rustled as she scraped the chair back. “Hold thy water, John Quinceneadle. Why disturb my peace?”

“Thou wert seen in the square yestereven, Mistress.”

“And should I not have business in the square?”

“Thou wert _running,_ I’m told. What hast thou to hide?”

She looked back over her shoulder; stared a moment, smiled broadly, winked.

“Whomsoever thou seek’s’t, he be not here. Or she.” She threw the door open. "Look thy fill.”

"Why are these rugs here?"

"Am I not to give my bedclothes an airing? When the chance of rain hast past, they'll be spread on the yew hedge."

“What are these things then?”

“Instruments of observation. And calculation.”

“Strange toys for a village widow.”

“They divert me in my solitude.”

“What potions are these?”

“Elderberry wine. I’d offer thee some wert thou less churlish.”

“And what – are these thy _familiars,_ woman?”

“Those are Winthrop and Jamael. I brought them here to heal, as I healed thy dog of the lame foot. So have a care, Master Quinceneadle. See’s’t thou thy fugitive?”

”Hast been anyone here?”

“Naught but me and my serpents.”

“Curst creatures.”

“They keep the vermin down. Now will ye give an old woman peace, or natter in my ear till nuncheon?”

“There’s something you’ve not told us, Mistress.”

“There are many things I tell not. Though I should tell thee, thy lady wife’s tonic will be ready by Thursday.”

“Impudence.”

The door slammed decisively. The woman thought a moment before barring it, then turned.

“That was well done. Thou’r’t a handsome snake.”

Transforming took energy that he barely had; he stretched out on the rugs again.

“I’ll wake thee at nightfall.”

  
* * *

Sleep always put him right. The ankle didn’t throb any more, and his ribs were only a little stiff. His Celestial strength was trickling back.

“Go canny, Master Crowley. The watchman’s a sot, and fills his jug before the tavern closes. He’ll be seeing double by now. West is the fastest road. Here, let me send some things with ye.”

“Why’re you doing all this? Looks like they’ve already got you on their shite list.”

“Aye, so what’s to lose? The harvest is only middling this year, and Colm Young lost almost all his sheep grazing ’em on ragwort. Did I not warn him? But no, they look for summat to blame. I'll 'scape this time, but one day they’ll come for me.”

“Hope not.”

“Oh lad, I already know to the hour. It’ll be a fine show, trust me.” She extended a small rucksack. “Some more of that comfrey paste, and a jug for the road. I’d say Godspeed, did I not know better.” The merry twinkle was back. “And … “

A listening expression came over her face, as if she’d suddenly heard something important from a good distance away.

_“The fire that hath smouldered six thousand years shall flame; yet the Earth shall burn not, so long as hands be joined and heads be pulled from arses. Also, he hath thy likeness in a locket.”_

Her eyes squinted briefly shut. _“Stand by for further instructions.”_

She shook her head briskly, eyes widening for a moment, and that was that.

“Not for the book. Personal for thee, on the house. Off with thee now.”

She lifted the bar of the door.

“I didn’t get your name, Mother.” He gave her the honorific owed her age, however lightly she carried it.

“Hah. Best ye not know it.”

When he looked back from the first turn of the moonlit road, he could still see the dim glow of the hobfire in the window.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Agnes' gratis, off-the-cuff prophecy owes a conscious debt to the delightful pastiche Nutter in Magnolia822's "Anything For Science"  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168632/chapters/47783761  
> illustrated wonderfully by altocello here:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819492
> 
> even though the fic comes from a far different part of the forest.
> 
> Jamael means "handsome." Agnes had to think of something on the fly, and I suspect even a gruff woman of a certain age wouldn't be oblivious to Crowley's dash.
> 
> If you like, please share, reblog, comment! Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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